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organisation’s money myself.”
    “Okay,” Barney said. “Let’s go.”

4 Susan Veldt
    T HE NEXT DAY WAS rainy in Manhattan—one of those heavy April rains that seems to pick up the Atlantic Ocean and throw it down with force on the island.
    Susan came out of her apartment opposite Central Park and decided it would be foolish waiting in the rain for one of the buses on the Avenue. She was lucky in grabbing a cab, though, and before long she had settled back somewhat damply onto the smelly leather seats. When she’d managed to compose herself a bit and wipe the dampness from her face, she opened her flowery attaché case to peer at the notes she’d made of yesterday’s activities.
    The day before had gone well and she found herself actually liking Barney Hamet in a strange sort of non-romantic way. He was all bulges and bristles in the right places, and gave the impression of being the sort that got a job done.
    After the tour of the Biltmore with him and that other strange man, Harry Fox, she’d gone last night to the 8th Street Book Store, where she occasionally found titles difficult to locate elsewhere. She’d pondered over their paperbound mystery section, stuck way up on the highest level, and found there—right ahead of Dashiell Hammett—two of the novels that Barney Hamet had turned out.
    She read one late that night, snuggled deep within the blankets of her bed, trying to imagine herself as the heroine, and Barney as the hero. But it didn’t work out, because the hero, a slick sort of police detective, was exactly the type she imagined most of the men in the world to be, and if this was Barney, she wanted no part of him.
    She had to admit, though, that the book had a certain pace, not bad for its sort, and she’d stuffed it into her attaché case, along with the unread one, thinking that they might provide useful research in the later stages of the article.
    When on a long story, she had a habit of typing up a rough draft and leaving it in Rowe’s In box for further discussion before the completed article was attempted. She did this when she reached the office, typing fast, with little thought to style, getting down the facts about Hamet and the interesting visit to Harry Fox’s cluttered office. She went into the arrangements at the Biltmore a little, but not too much, preferring to save them for a description of the dinner itself. Rowe was out, and she left the rough draft in his box.
    After lunch she phoned Barney Hamet at MWA headquarters. “Remember me? Susan Veldt, from yesterday?”
    “How could I forget?”
    “I was wondering how things were coming.”
    “Pretty well. Everything usually falls into place at the last minute.”
    “You said something yesterday about Craft Sessions—some panel discussions of editors and such that precede the dinner itself …”
    “Yes. Those will be Thursday night and Friday afternoon. We have some people flying in for them. Editors and such.”
    “Would it be worth my while to come over for them?”
    “I don’t think so. They’re not really a part of the actual awards event, and that’s what you’re interested in, isn’t it?”
    “I suppose so,” she said.
    There was a pause, and she waited for him to say something. But when it came, she was disappointed. “Look, I’ve got to rush now. A million things to take care of. Phone me later in the week, and we’ll make arrangements for you. You said you bought a ticket. Is one enough? Your editor doesn’t want to come, does he?”
    She tried to picture Arthur Rowe among the denizens of the mystery-writing world. “No.” She chuckled a bit “I don’t think so.”
    She put down the phone and stared out the window at the rain, feeling oddly empty, disjointed. The conversation had been unsatisfactory, but then, what had she expected? She was a gal who hated most men, and there was no reason for her to feel otherwise about Barney Hamet.

5 Barney Hamet
    O N THURSDAY MORNING, QUITE early, Barney